Notes from a Ghetto -

Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect

By: Valerie Vande Panne

May 10, 2002

There was a block around the corner from my former home in East Harlem, nestled between two main avenues, with virtually no buildings on it. A high chain link fence corralled the empty lots. There was a Puerto Rican flag mounted in the middle, waving in the breeze, surrounded by chip bags, soda cans, and brown paper bags holding empty 40 ounce bottles of Old English Ale. There was a row of chicken coops at the far end of the lot. When I walked my dog early in the morning, I heard more roosters than I did growing up in the farm country of Michigan.

One morning, they seemed louder than usual. I was happy with the nature and peace they added to the urban enclave I walked my dog through each day.

There was an abandoned building at the end of the block, surrounded by the scaffolding cheap landlords put up when they have no renovation plans, and don't want the delapitating bricks to fall on passers-by. The scaffolding also created a nice spot to set up shop: cover from the rain, shade from the sun, it was easy to hang out underneath, selling drugs kept hidden in the structure. When police try to bust up spots like this, the dealer is found empty handed, and the cops won't take the scaffolding apart looking for contra band. At this spot, they simply waited around the corner, and would pick up people they suspected were leaving the spot.

The morning the roosters were singing so loudly, I greeted the salesman with a smile. I saw him every day. A Spanish man, he was polite, friendly, and crippled. He had two crutches holding him up, his legs distorted, twisted, underdeveloped trunks. He smiled back and said, "God bless you, Mommy."

My dog and I continued our walk around the corner, and a police van came to a crashing halt in front of me. I was thankful I don't patronize the spot I just passed. I whispered protection for my friend who had just blessed me.

The police didn't have their sites on me or my friend: Three of the officers ran out of the van and surround a petite brown woman in front of me, clean looking and carrying shopping bags.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!" she screamed. The boys in blue took her bags, throwing them to a white shirted sergeant who was overseeing the assault.

The woman was pleading with the cops now to stop, "STOP! I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WRONG!" She was sobbing. The hands of three white male officers, twice her size, groped and explored every fold in her clothing, every pocket of her jeans, every crevice under her breasts. She was red-faced, tears soaking her cheeks.

"STOP! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME? I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!" She struggled to cover her breasts, her crotch, but she could not stop them from touching her.

She became hysterical.

I was standing 10 feet from the scene. My dog stood next to me, a low rumble in his throat. He looked up at me, seeking direction.

One of the officers, a small, thick, white man with a ball shaped, shaved head and lacking a neck, produced a baggie about the size of a bite sized chocolate candy.

"What's this? Huh? Huh?" he asked, scrubbing the baggie across her face. Her head rolled back. It looked like he was trying to shove the plastic into her nose.

She was still sobbing.

"You didn't do nothing wrong?" asked the cop, grabbing the back of her head, scrubbing the plastic with still more force against her face. "Then what the hell is this?"

They slammed her against the building wall, her face now smushed against the brick. "It's nothing!" she pleaded. "I didn't do anything wrong!!" They cuffed her hands behind her back.

The cops snorted, shook their heads, and pulled the defeated heap of a woman into the back of their van.

"Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect" was painted in NYPD blue on the side of the vehicle.

The sergeant stood in the same spot. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, had a neatly trimmed mustache, and sandy blonde hair. I asked him what the woman did.

"She has drugs," he said simply.

"But why treat her like this?"

"If I can keep one bag of drugs off the streets, I'm doing a good thing," he said.

"But do you like your work? Do you accomplish anything?"

"I love my work. It'll be three days before this woman will be back on the streets. For three days, she won't be able to buy or use drugs."

"But she'll be back in three days. What is this changing? How is it helping?"

"Are you a law student?" the sergeant asked.

"No,"

"A journalist?"

"No," - It would be more than a year before I would begin to write for public consumption.

"Then why do you want to know?"

"Because I live in this neighborhood," I said.

He looked me up and down. I felt my skin prickling.

"I suggest you keep walking your dog, and be careful." He pointed his finger at me, the threat of 'watch your back.' The police in the van smiled at me through the windows, mimicking their sergeant's gesture. He climbed into the driver's seat.

The block was quiet again. It was 7:45 A.M. I continued walking with my dog. I could still hear the roosters calling, in the vacant lot around the corner.